


The Weight of Words Unspoken

by rattatatosk



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Miscommunication, Post-Armageddon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:34:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22326421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rattatatosk/pseuds/rattatatosk
Summary: The trouble with not saying things directly for thousands of years, is that sometimes you forget to be clear once you can actually speak openly.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 49
Kudos: 294
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	The Weight of Words Unspoken

“ _Wud he be harder to git rid of than, say, a demon?” asked Shadwell, who had begun to brighten._

“ _Not much more,” said Aziraphale, who had never done other to get rid of demons than to hint to them very strongly that he, Aziraphale, had some work to be getting on with, and wasn't it getting late? And Crowley had always got the hint._

* * *

The world had failed to end not quite a week ago.

In the days since, one angel and one demon, caught up in the heady rush of tricking their respective superiors and escaping certain death, had found themselves engaged in a giddy whirlwind of activities, visiting all their favorite haunts and spontaneously inventing several new ones along the way; delighting in the sheer joy of being able to spend time together without caring a whit who might have seen them.

It had been wonderful, but even supernatural beings tire eventually, and so they had at last retired to the bookshop to while away the smaller hours in relative quiet. As the syrupy gold light of afternoon faded into night, they let themselves drift on a quiet sea of comfort, full of food and good wine and feeling pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. It was not so different from the way they'd spent many nights before, but unlike their evenings before Armageddon, they sat together, both of them curled up on the sofa.

It was Crowley's spot, really, or at least it had started that way; Aziraphale preferring to keep a safe distance and the sheltering walls of his armchair between them. But the past few days had found them drawing closer and closer together, pulling away from their previous orbits and finding a new balance between each other. Now Aziraphale sat neatly and primly as ever on one end of the plush cushions, and Crowley sprawled across the rest, taking up an entirely unreasonable amount of space as he lay boneless and half-melted, limbs dangling at awkward angles.

They didn't quite touch, still. The balance between them was not yet certain enough for that. They were moving towards it, but slowly, slowly. The weight of six millennia hung over them, too heavy to easily discard. At this point the fear was reflexive. It was one thing to know that they were finally free; quite another to _feel_ it.

It was enough for now to be here, sitting next to one another. The gravity wells between them tangling together, drawing tighter. Eventually, they would meet, and a new orbit would be created. It would take time, but they had time, now. All the time in the world.

They had been engaged in a hearty debate earlier- something about adapting books to stage and film, Aziraphale thought, although he'd quite lost the thread of it now-- but had since lapsed into a comfortable silence, with only the ticking of the grandfather clock and the occasional turn of the page to break it. For a moment, Aziraphale closed his eyes, just to savor it-- this soft, warm feeling-- as if he were sampling a new dessert. It was much the same way he'd spent a thousand nights, or ten thousand-- but it felt so different, with Crowley here, safe and comfortable beside him. He felt _complete_ , even though, if you had asked him just a week ago, he couldn't have told you that anything was missing.

Then the clock chimed, and the moment was lost. Aziraphale startled at it, glancing up from his book in surprise. “My goodness,” he murmured. “It has gotten late, hasn't it.”

“Mnh?” Crowley cracked open one golden eye from where his head hung off the end of the sofa. “Wazzat, angel?”

“I said, it's gotten quite late. It's gone three already.”  
  
“Oh.” Crowley said, swinging a gangly arm around and peering at his ridiculous contraption of a watch. “So it has,” he muttered, and struggled to rise. To say that he _stood up_ was not precisely accurate: it was more like he oozed off the couch and then flailed about until he had achieved something approaching vertical.

“Right,” he said, slipping his sunglasses on with the cool attitude of a cat who has just thoroughly embarrassed itself while pretending that had always been its intent. “I'll just-- I'll be off, then, shall I? See you around, angel.”

Aziraphale frowned. What had brought this on? It had been days now that they'd spent together, drifting from cafe to restaurant to patisserie, park to museum to theatre, retiring to the bookshop when it got too dark or the streets too empty, where Crowley dozed and Aziraphale organized his newly restored books, carefully rearranging the shop back into the correct order. It had, Aziraphale realized, almost started to become a routine. He had started to _expect_ that Crowley would be there, would _stay_ , now that neither of them had anyone to report to.

Certainly, after everything they had gone through, Aziraphale found himself still worrying, just a bit, whenever Crowley stepped out of his sight for too long. The relief of their freedom was still too new, too precious to be trusted, and he found himself reluctant to be parted from Crowley for any length of time. He'd rather thought Crowley felt the same, although they hadn't actually _said_ anything about it.

However, now that he thought of it-- oh dear. Perhaps he should have known. Crowley always did get so restless, used to dashing about constantly. It was only natural he should want a little space to himself, and yet--

“Wait,” he said, before he could stop himself. “I- that is- you don't have to go.” He flushed. “Unless you want to, of course-- I won't keep you. But you don't have to- at least, not on my account...” He trailed off, fidgeting nervously with the ring on his finger.  
  
Crowley had turned back to stare at him, looking utterly baffled. “Angel, what are you going on about? You said--”

“I said it's getting late, and it is, rather. I didn't realize I'd gotten so caught up in this book-- only, we've been spending quite a lot of time together this past week, haven't we? And I rather thought--”  
  
Crowley was still staring at him, face flickering through expressions as if uncertain which one it should settle on. Aziraphale wished he hadn't put his glasses back on; it made him so much harder to read, and the comfortable silence between them now felt tenuous and strained.

The moment stretched, neither quite willing to be the first to break it. In the end, it was Crowley who caved. “So,” he said, hesitantly, “So... you _don't_ want me to leave?”

“No, of course not! Not unless you want to-- which I'd understand, of course. You must be getting bored, cooped up in here all night. It's just we've been having such a wonderful time--”

“Of course _I_ don't want to,” Crowley said, annoyance creeping into his voice as if Aziraphale was being deliberately obtuse. “But you said--”  
  
“I only said it was getting late, and it has, I— _oh!”_ Realization flooded through Aziraphale at last. He thought of all the nights they'd spent together over the course of the Arrangement, sitting in inns or taverns or, eventually, the bookshop. Both of them loose and wine-drunk, each coming up with various excuses to prolong things, neither wanting their meeting to end-- rather as they had been doing for the past week, in fact. But of course it _had_ to end eventually, it wasn't _safe_ for them to be together too long. And so Aziraphale had always found some way of getting Crowley to leave without actually kicking him out directly. Blithe observations that it was getting quite late, wasn't it, and he did have work to get to, you know, he couldn't be dilly-dallying about all day... Crowley had always gotten the hint, and had made his excuses, ambling off without any fuss.

And now-- he'd said it again, and this time it really _had_ been just a casual observation-- but Crowley had assumed it meant the same as it always had. Of course he did. Why wouldn't he? For all their time together these past few days, they hadn't really discussed the thing between them. What it meant. What they wanted, now that there was a chance they might actually get to have it. It had remained unspoken as ever, too big to fit words around, and yet somehow fragile, as if naming it directly might break the spell, and it would disappear.

Aziraphale sighed. Old habits, he supposed. Well, it was a brave new world, and some things needed saying. Crowley had been waiting for him for far too long already.

Aziraphale stepped forward, and very deliberately took one of Crowley's hands in both of his own. “My dear,” he said gently. “I do apologize. I wasn't suggesting you should leave.”

Crowley frowned. “You... weren't?”

Aziraphale smiled softly. “No. I only meant-- well, this is becoming something of a routine, isn't it? And if you're going to keep staying over, perhaps- well, perhaps you'd like to move somewhere more comfortable? I know you generally act as if bones are only a suggestion for how a body should be held up, but, well-- I do have a bed upstairs. You don't have to drape yourself over the sofa like an afghan.”

Crowley was watching him, still and wary, clearly waiting for some other shoe to drop.

“I-” Crowley licked his lips. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.” He gave Crowley's hand a reassuring squeeze.

“You really want me to stay?” he continued. “You're not- not sick of me?” He said it lightly, but Aziraphale could hear the genuine worry beneath the words. He smiled again, and reached up to cradle the demon's face with one hand, caressing a sharp cheekbone with his thumb. “Never,” he said. “Stay as long as you like. Stay always.”

Crowley made in incoherent sound at that, all half-strangled vowels. He shivered. “Always? I- Aziraphale, are you sure?”

“I'm sure.” Aziraphale stepped closer, crossing that threshold of touch and drawing the demon into his arms. “It doesn't feel right anymore,” he admitted, murmuring into his shoulder, “being here without you. So-- stay. If you want to, that is.”

Crowley was still for a long moment, stiff and tense, before he finally shuddered and relaxed into the hold, burying his face into Aziraphale's neck. There was the muffled sound of something entirely heartfelt that Crowley would never admit to saying.

“What was that, darling?”

Crowley turned his head, tips of his ears flushed bright pink. “I said-- yes. Yeah, of course I want to stay.”

Aziraphale smiled, and leaned in to press a soft, gentle kiss on Crowley's forehead. “Wonderful. Come on, then. Let's go to bed.”

There are distances between them, still, that must be crossed. There are many more words that must be said, in the light of morning and the dark of quiet nights. There is a long journey ahead of them. But a first step has been made, words shaping something concrete, rather than the guesswork of silences and words left unspoken. It is a beginning.

(and on the seventh day, they rested.)


End file.
